Monday, December 05, 2005

3 poems by Amick Boone


We are in this outside not allowed
It takes from me to hide it but I would

Hide it cause it tidies words up in their suits
cause it’s all you think a person of this look can do

True, in a dress I’m really something
scapular like birds’ and narrow ribs

I let them touch me, try to make it good:
say the insides of me sound like poem too

But I’m not what writes it I’m the radio
I know I tried to swallow me and choked



I watch a mouthful of it
a really big and poet voice

The words he uses vacuum
take the room up with their noise

I make my throat into an o
so skinny till a sound gets caught

There’s matter in it won’t come out
the word, a little cougher

The talker thinks I’m nice
hear him better when I’m not so loud

Let him think it, let my self be told
Go find a microphone, and gulp it whole



Today there are not words:
sun, gigantic ocean
gull suspended

I’ll give em to the poem
(accident) don’t speak em
I say nothing to no one

The people round here ruin things
they make em run. Plus what’s image
got to do with gull –